


Warm Hands, Warm Heart

by stfustucky (iwillpaintasongforlou)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 20 percent hurt 80 percent comfort, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Christmas, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Infidelity, Fluff, Getting out of a bad relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Hallmark Christmas Movies, M/M, Minor Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher), Soft feelings, brokenhearted geralt, emotionally abusive partners, geralt as santa, innkeeper Geralt, trophy husband Jaskier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:48:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28247901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwillpaintasongforlou/pseuds/stfustucky
Summary: Geralt is a small town innkeeper who carries around his heartbreak like a shield to prevent anyone from getting too close to him, and Jaskier is a trophy-husband-to-be of an asshole lawyer who doesn't appreciate him at all. Jaskier gets snowed in while passing through town three days before Christmas, and as he weathers the storm with the grumpy innkeeper, he learns something about the spirit of Christmas... and maybe, just maybe, something about himself, too.Ever seen a Hallmark Christmas movie? That, but make it gay and witcher. Nuff said.
Relationships: Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Valdo Marx
Comments: 24
Kudos: 116





	Warm Hands, Warm Heart

**DECEMBER 22ND**

There are exactly three people on the planet that Jaskier would consider supremely lucky, in that they've had the opportunity to have him as a boyfriend. It's a high-quality experience, honestly, full of loyalty and charm and some goddamn fantastic sex if he does say so himself. Truly, if it were possible, he'd date himself. He deserves only the best, after all. Tragically that's impossible, so the honor is reserved for the lucky men he chooses to date.

There was Jason Baker in 8th grade, who was graced with Jaskier's presence for an entire month before they were forced to part ways by the insurmountable obstacle of being sent to different high schools. Then there was Adam, who was the first one to get his hand down Jaskier's pants. He was a junior to Jaskier's sophomore and a basketball player to boot, which could have made him The One, except for the fact that he was still so far in the back of a closet that even Jaskier's fumbling attempts at seduction couldn't drag him out into the light. That hadn't even lasted two weeks, but it still counts.

And then there was Valdo, Jaskier's first love, who had transferred in halfway through junior year and stolen Jaskier's heart with his confidence and charm. They were the only two openly gay boys in the school, so of course it was meant to be. They were the power couple of the student body, becoming the first same-sex prom kings in the county's history, and everything had been rainbows and sunshine. They'd even pulled off the impossible and stayed together after graduation, getting an apartment together as Valdo went to law school full time and Jaskier worked three jobs to keep the two of them afloat.

There had been some hard times, but they'd paid off. Valdo landed a posh job at a large law firm and is now raking in the dough, some of which he'd used to buy the enormous engagement ring on Jaskier's finger right now. The apartment became a condo, and three jobs became zero as Jaskier no longer has to lift a finger to make ends meet. He gets to 'sit around and look pretty' as Valdo loves to tell him, while his boyfriend --his  _ fiancé, _ rather-- brings home the bacon.

Honestly though, considering the quality of Jaskier's blow job game and how fucking amazing he is at being a boyfriend, Valdo is still getting the better end of the deal here. Let's get that as straight as Jaskier isn't.

"Oh this? Oh, it's nothing, just a little something that I picked up for you because I know you better than anyone else in the world and I knew you'd adore it," Jaskier rehearses to himself as he drives, pretending that it's Christmas morning and Valdo has just unwrapped the perfect gift and has turned to him with eyes shining with tears of gratitude. "Honestly, darling, you know I'd do anything for you. "What's a little five hour round trip to the middle of nowhere to visit an artisan leatherworker, if it makes you happy?"

The Valdo in his head is running his hands over a shiny leather briefcase appreciatively, which then turns into him running his hands over Jaskier appreciatively, and then Jaskier has to crack the driver's side window a bit to let in an icy breeze to prevent him from overheating. He has a vivid imagination, okay?

Finally, the GPS on his phone informs him that his exit is approaching, and Jaskier turns off of the highway with relief. He hasn't minded the drive too terribly, since his Prius has heated seats and a bluetooth stereo that lets him play his true crime podcast while he drives. Still, two and a half hours is a long time to sit still for anyone, let alone Jaskier. He's going to lose it any minute now if he doesn't get to stretch his legs.

He'd known that the town would be small, just based off of the pictures he'd pulled up on Google Maps during the research phase of his master plan. All the buildings were one story, all the streets were one-lane, and the residential part of town consisted of adorable little cottages that looked like they could maybe fit about 75 percent of Jaskier's wardrobe if you blew out all the walls. What he hadn't realized was that even now, at five o'clock in the afternoon when the 'downtown area --if you could call it that-- should be bustling with activity, it would be a ghost town. There are lights on in all of the shop windows, and one or two pedestrians milling around, but other than that, the streets are so... quiet.

It's fuckin' weird, is what it is. There's not a single car horn blaring or even one irate local yelling at someone to go fuck themselves. Manhattan this most  _ certainly _ is not. 

The little shop, called  _ Tanners and Trinkets _ and marked by a large sign over the door with a hand-painted look about it, is on the far reaches of the little town. Jaskier pulls his car into an empty spot along the curb and spills gratefully from the car, stretching himself out in the weak sunlight filtering through the gray clouds and groaning with satisfaction. He snatches his wallet and phone from the passenger seat and makes his way in, locking the doors with his key fob as he goes. No one's gonna catch  _ him _ pulling that idiotic small-town 'leave your doors unlocked because people are trustworthy' bullshit.

It's warm inside, with the smell of fresh leather and fresh wood immediately overwhelming Jaskier's senses from the moment he opens the door. Most of the light in the room comes from a few soft lamps and the twinkle of Christmas lights all around him. Whoever runs this place appears to be a Christmas fanatic, and has decked every available surface with homemade-looking decorations. It's a little bit kitschy, but in the way that makes Jaskier smile on instinct. This place feels like a home.

"Hey, welcome to Tanners and Trinkets," a man behind the counter says, and Jaskier has to peer around a tabletop Christmas tree to see him. He has dark hair that's slicked back and a curious, almost mischievous expression on his face. "What can I do for you?"

"Hello," Jaskier says with a little wave. "Are you Mr. Hill, the craftsman?"

"Why yes I am," the man declares smugly, straightening up on his stool and puffing out his chest a bit. "Look at that, I'm getting famous and shit. People coming all the way from Manhattan for my stuff. What are you looking for?"

"I'm looking for a briefcase," Jaskier tells him eagerly, gesturing with his hands to approximate size. "Money's not an issue, but I want it to be really nice quality. Perhaps a darker leather, something sophisticated--"

He breaks off when he notices that all of the wind has abruptly left Hill's sails. "Ah, fuck. You're not here for me. You want the  _ other _ Hill. Stupid bastard. Baby!" he suddenly hollers, turning his head back towards the rear of the shop. "Someone needs you!"

"Hang on a sec!" comes another voice from deeper in the building, followed by a series of clunking and clattering noises that can't be good. "Shit. That's-- I can fix that. Coming!" A man emerges from the back room, but only barely, his wide shoulders seeming to defy the natural confines of door frames. He has dark hair that just brushes his shoulders, and warm brown eyes that are accented by a few long scars that mark the side of his face. It doesn't make him any less handsome, though, or his smile any less warm. "Hey, what can I do for you?"

"He wants leather," the man at the counter says with a roll of his eyes. "Here I am, a perfectly good artisan toymaker, but nooooo, no one ever comes for  _ Lambert _ Hill. All they want is my stupid beefcake husband and his stupid fancy leather."

The beefcake husband looks a little guilty and a lot amused, and Jaskier can relate. "Oh, I had no idea you sold toys at this shop, too, that's great," he quickly says. "I actually needed to pick up a few gifts for some little ones. I'd love to take a look at your work, too, while I'm here." He could probably make some friends who have kids between now and Christmas, right? whatever, he'll figure it out.

Lambert straightens at that, turning smugly to his husband. "Suck on that, Eskel."

Eskel, for his part, looks like he's swallowing back an inappropriate response. "Well let me get the leather sorted for you so that I can get out of your way and let the real craftsman work," he says fondly. "What kind of leather did you need?"

Once again describing the briefcase he has in mind, Jaskier watches as Eskel's gaze almost immediately glazes over like he's running through inventory in his mind. That must be exactly what he's going, because no sooner has Jaskier finished his description than Eskel is wandering into the back and making more clattering noises and emerging with a dark leather case in hand. "Oh, that's perfect!" Jaskier exclaims excitedly, making grabby hands for it. It feels smooth beneath his palms, the brass fittings gleaming. "This will make the perfect gift."

"Who's it for?" Lambert asks, leaning his elbows on the counter and pillowing his chin on a cupped palm. He has a hand-carved top in his other hand, spinning it idly on the counter as he speaks. It doesn't wobble even a bit, perfectly balanced.

"Lamb, you can't ask that," Eskel mutters, passing a tired hand over his face like they've had this conversation a million times before. "You don't know him, that's rude."

"Who the fuck says I can't?"

"Literally anyone with manners or common sense."

"It's okay, I don't mind," laughs Jaskier. "It's for my fiance. He's a lawyer," he adds, resisting the urge to flash his ring. Okay, so maybe he likes to show off the bling and brag about his man sometimes. So sue him. "He's going to  _ love _ this."

"You're damn right he is, Kelly's leather is the best shit around," Lambert says decisively. He turns and makes a shooing motion to the mountain of a man. "Now get the fuck out of here so I can show him some real art. What kind of shit are you into? Trains? Or maybe some dolls or some shit? Chess sets?"

Time gets away from Jaskier for a while, as Lambert brings out item after item to show him. It may have been a polite lie at first, telling him that he wanted to see his wares, but now that he's looking, Jaskier is genuinely impressed. Everything Lambert shows him is just as fine in its own way as the briefcase, carved with precision and painted beautifully. He wonders whether it was their mutual talent and competence that drew the couple together, or whether it was coincidence. Either way, it makes the cozy little shop feel like a wonderland tucked into this tiny town with the snow falling heavily outside the frosted windows.

Wait, fuck,  _ snow? _

"Oh sweet Melitele's tits, it's really coming down out there," Jaskier gasps, moving to the window and looking out at the street to find that a good bit has already accumulated on the sidewalks and is starting to stick to the streets. "I didn't know it was going to snow today. Damn it, Alexa, what a time for your weather widget to need updating."

"Oof, yeah, we're about to get slammed," Lambert says with a grimace. "Sucks you didn't know. It's supposed to be at least six inches."

_ "Six inches?" _ Jaskier can't help groaning. His spoiled Manhattan ass isn't used to driving much at all, let alone in snow, and six inches is nothing to sneeze at.

"At least," Lambert solemnly confirms. "That's if the wind blows the right way and we just catch the edge. If it blows the other way, might get eighteen before it's through. You live under a rock or something? They've been talking about this storm for a week now."

Jaskier very pointedly doesn't tell him that he spends most of his free time scrolling on tumblr or watching Netflix baking shows, which don't really include local weather reports. "Well... ah, fuck. There's no way I can drive home in this. I'll run the car off the road, freeze to death, and then Valdo will come and find my popsicle corpse and revive me so that he can kill me again for crashing the Prius."

"There's an inn in town," offers Lambert with a shrug. "Well, more of a bed and breakfast, really. My brother runs the place. You could spend the night there and see how it looks in the morning."

It's far from ideal, but the snow seems to be falling heavier than before and he can't think of anything better. "That might be the best plan," he sighs. "Let me just... call Valdo, I guess, and let him know that I won't be home tonight."

"Dope. I'll wrap your shit up for you while you do that."

Jaskier moves to the far side of the shop for privacy, fingering a display of hand-painted wooden ornaments tied with thin leather thongs as he clicks on Valdo's contact to dial. The line trills a few times in his ear, and then a familiar voice picks up. "Marx."

"Why do you always answer the phone like that?" Jaskier laughs. "You know it's me, babe. You see my name pop up on your phone."

"Sorry, force of habit. What's up?"

At exactly that moment, Jaskier accidentally topples a log cabin made of wooden whistles, which all cascade to the floor. He hurriedly taps the button for speakerphone and puts it on the table so that he can use his hands to clean up his mess. It's bad phone etiquette, but somehow he doubts that the sailor-mouthed Lambert is going to begrudge him a faux pas. "Okay, so, I may have encountered a small and unexpected adventure today. I bravely went where no man --or at least not me-- has ever gone before."

"Like where? The gym?"

There's a little noise somewhere behind Jaskier that indicates that Lambert  _ definitely _ heard that, and Jaskier feels his face go hot with embarrassment immediately. That's what he gets for putting the notoriously blunt Valdo on speakerphone without telling him, he supposes. "Don't be an asshole," he mumbles, pointedly not looking at Lambert, his fingers tight around the fallen whistle he's in the middle of re-stacking.

"Sorry," Valdo says, though he doesn't sound like he means it. "Alright, where'd you go, then?"

"I went out shopping. Drove like two and a half hours to this little town in the middle of nowhere to visit this shop that I read about online. It's great, the stuff is very high end," he throws in for Lambert's benefit.

Valdo heaves a heavy sigh. "Great. That's cool, I love crazy credit card bills. Look, whatever stupid boots or guitar accessories you bought yourself today, can we talk about it later? I don't really have time for this, I have three clients I need to call still, and--"

Jaskier grabs for the phone and quickly taps the speaker off, bringing the phone to his ear and lowering his voice instead. "I wasn't-- I'm Christmas shopping. For you. You don't have to be such an asshole about it, seriously. You're the one who keeps telling me you don't want me to work."

His words are followed by a long pause, in which Jaskier assumes that Valdo is running over the familiar argument in his head just like Jaskier himself is doing. The constant seesaw between Valdo's love of keeping Jaskier around as a trophy husband and his resent at being the sole breadwinner is exhausting for both of them. "I'm sorry," he says again, and at least this time he  _ kind of _ sounds like he means it. "Look, I'm not trying to start a fight. Why don't you buy yourself something while you're out, too? Something lacy and red, maybe. I'll be home in an hour, and then you can remind me why you're worth every penny. That sound good?"

There's a little croon to his voice that makes Jaskier's lower belly swoop, and yes, it sounds very good. It sounds like a promise of one of Valdo's signature fuck-you-til- your knees-give-out romps that always make him feel wild and dirty in the best of ways. He can already feel the way that soft silk and lace will feel rough as it's yanked down around his knees to make room for Valdo behind him. It's with genuine regret and half of a hard-on that he answers, "Ah. It does, darling, genuinely, but there's one teeny tiny problem. I'm sort of snowed in."

"You're kidding," Valdo groans. "You let me get all fired up thinking about you naked, and now you're telling me you're not coming home? C'mon, Jask."

"Yes, well, last I remembered you had two perfectly functional hands to take care of a problem like that," huffs Jaskier, starting to get annoyed again. "It's not like I can change the weather. And since you seem so concerned about it, let me allay your overwhelming fears and assure you that I have found lodging. I know you're frightfully worried about my safety and whatnot."

"Okay wait, don't get all dramatic about it, you know I didn't mean it like that--"

"I know," Jaskier interrupts, more to himself than to Valdo. "I know you didn't. Whatever, it's fine. I just-- I'm going to spend the night here in town and I'll come back in the morning, okay? I just wanted to call you and let you know. I love you," he tacks on for good measure, just because he hates to let a fight linger past a goodbye.

"I love you, too," he's gratified to get as the immediate answer. "I'll see you tomorrow, babe."

"Alright, tomorrow. Bye." Jaskier ends the call quickly so that his heavy sigh won't be audible over the connection and stir shit up all over again. He turns back to the counter in time to see Lambert's eyes dart away like he was following the conversation very carefully and is now intent upon pretending that he was following it not at all. "Husbands, am I right?" jokes Jaskier, shrugging one shoulder awkwardly. "Always thinking with their dicks. I swear it's impossible to find a good one these days."

As if on cue, Eskel reemerges from the shop once more, this time carrying an oversized soup mug of what smells like hot chocolate and a napkin containing a few cookies. He brings them over to the counter where Lambert is still perched on his stool and puts the treats in front of him, leaning in and capturing the slender man's chin to turn his face gently. "For my favorite artist," he murmurs quietly, pressing a tiny, chaste kiss to his husband's lips. "It's cold out here, I'll turn the heat up for you."

Lambert looks plenty warm enough, or perhaps it's Eskel that's made him melt. Jaskier feels a little gooey inside, himself. "Those smell amazing --which, first of all, when the fuck did you have time to make my favorite cookies?-- but they'll have to wait. I'm gonna walk, um... sorry, what's your name? I didn't catch it."

"Jaskier, Pankratz."

"Jaskier, cool. I'm gonna walk Jaskier over here to Gary's place. He can't drive in this weather and I can't leave a poor, defenseless, adorable, unappreciated-by-his-fiancé customer face the storm alone, after all. Better to take him over to the B&B where he can.. get cozy."

There's a suspicious glower to Eskel's gaze that Jaskier doesn't quite understand. "I'm sure Jaskier's  _ fiance _ would appreciate the courtesy. He probably wants only the best for the  _ man that he loves and is going to marry." _

"One would certainly think so," Lambert sagely replies.

At that, Eskel rolls his eyes. "You're ridiculous. Eat your cookies, I'll walk him over. You'll only slip and fall on your ass and then complain about it hurting for a week."

"And you'd gladly kiss it better, you pervert." Eskel snorts his amusement but doesn't deny it, and Lambert proceeds to stuff his mouth with one of the fresh cookies as he watches Eskel pull on a coat he retrieves from a hook by the door. "Thank you, baby."

"Mmhmm. Behave yourself. Is this everything?" Eskel asks Jaskier, grabbing a large shopping bag filled with Jaskier's many purchases --seriously, he needs to befriend some people with offspring  _ immediately-- _ off of the counter.

"Oh, yes. Sorry, I'll--"

"I've got it," Eskel says, waving him off. "You just focus on not slipping on the slush. Come on, the walk isn't far."

Eskel's words prove to be true, but so does his warning. In the three blocks that they walk from the shop to the B&B, Jaskier almost eats pavement twice. He only barely manages to catch himself on a light pole and a mailbox, respectively, and then finishes out the journey by more or less gracefully gliding face-first into the building they were heading for. The flakes are falling heavy and soaking into his jacket far too quickly, and Jaskier shivers as he very carefully inches his way up the little steps and to the door. "Easy peasy," he says with a little wheeze, pulling the door open.

As with  _ Tanners and Trinkets,  _ when he enters the B&B he's greeted by a rush of warm air as he opens the door, and this time it's even more welcome after his harrowing journey through town. The air is lightly cinnamon-scented, not in the way that comes from artificial candles or air fresheners, but like someone has just finished baking an apple pie and is using it to lure in hungry souls from out in the cold. If Jaskier were a cartoon character, he'd be getting dragged into the room by a little white wisp of smoke.

Once his haze of sudden drooling has passed, he becomes aware of a soft, low voice speaking somewhere nearby. "You've got to stop doing this," the unseen man is sighing. "That's not how this works. Especially not when there's entanglements. Stop making an ass out of yourself  _ and me." _ There's a pause. "I don't care what he said, it's none of your--" Suddenly the phone slams down, probably because Jaskier has just wandered into the room and interrupted him. "Uh, hey. Welcome. You must be Jaskier."

Jaskier momentarily forgets if he is, in fact, Jaskier, because he's too busy looking at the very good-looking man standing behind the makeshift front desk counter in what probably used to be the sitting room of this house. He's young, probably about Jaskier's age, but with snow white hair pulled up into a messy bun and the matching scruff of a beard that suggests that the color can only be somehow natural. He's wearing a black cable-knit sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and a marked frown. His golden eyes match Lambert's, and Jaskier knows at once that this must be the brother that Lambert conveniently forgot to mention was a solid 10.

What? He's engaged, not blind.

"Um, yes, Jaskier Pankratz. And I take it you're Gary?"

The scowl on that handsome face only deepens. "It's Geralt," he's gruffly informed. "I keep telling him not to call me that. People think he's fucking serious."

"He is serious," Eskel chimes in, "about doing his best to piss you off. You know that's his favorite hobby. Hey man," he says with a lot less sarcasm, coming up beside Jaskier and jerking his chin casually to Gary-- er, Geralt. "Ignore the bullshit. He does need a place to stay. Going to be snowed in for the night."

"No shit. No one's going to be driving in  _ that _ tonight," Geralt hums. "Alright. Pick a number two through five."

It takes Jaskier a moment to register that the question is being asked of him, and he only puts the pieces together because Geralt is staring him down like he's waiting for the nuclear launch codes. "Uh, two? Why?"

"Because this place only has five rooms, and it's always empty. You get your pick of the lot." Geralt grabs a key off of a hook behind him and opens up an honest-to-god guest book and starts scrawling something on the page. "Good pick. Got the best bed."

"If it's always empty, why couldn't I pick room one?" Jaskier asks just to have something to say.

"Because that one's mine," Geralt answers simply, handing the key over. "You hungry?"

"Always," answers Jaskier honestly. He hadn't even thought about it until he'd walked in and smelled whatever was baking, but the smell of cinnamon has awakened his stomach with a mighty rumble. "What's good around here for takeout?"

He gets two funny looks for that, and Geralt raises an eyebrow skeptically. "You know this isn't Manhattan, right? We have one restaurant in town, and Betty's Diner doesn't do deliveries, on account of Betty's bad hip. If you want a hot meal around here, you have to cook it yourself."

"Ah, right. Now see, you almost had me charmed with your small town ways, what with the artisan shops and adorable cottages, but you've lost me now. I can't live without Golden Dragon on demand." Jaskier shakes his head. "Ah well. I suppose I'll survive for the night. Is there a convenience store I can run to at least? Relive my teenage days with a dinner of Funyuns and Cherry Coke?"

Geralt lets out an offended noise. "That sounds disgusting. I'll make you Chinese if that's what you want."

"Really?" Jaskier feels his face get warm, and seriously, what is  _ wrong _ with him today? "Is that on the menu?"

"Never bother writing a menu when I never really get any guests," Geralt shrugs, "but I think I can make it happen. If you want."

Twenty minutes later, he's sitting only a little awkwardly on the sofa in the sitting room, nibbling on a slice of the cinnamon raisin bread that Geralt had pointed him in the direction of, listening to the sounds of Geralt clanging around in the kitchen that's neatly sealed off from the rest of the house with a swinging door. Eskel had said his goodbyes and left as soon as he saw Jaskier settled, claiming with deadly seriousness that if Lambert had to leave the house in the snow to come looking for him, he'd burn the whole town down in retaliation. Geralt had nodded somberly in a way that made Jaskier have some serious questions about the toymaker's sanity.

He unpacks his bag of goodies and removes the brown paper wrapping of the briefcase, admiring its quality once again. Already he can picture Valdo using it, looking sleek and professional and suave in that way that always makes Jaskier feel ragged beside him. The thought brings back the conversation from before, in which Valdo's teasing words cut just a little too close to Jaskier's pride. He really ought to spend his time a little better, make sure that he's living up to the lifestyle he's been so generously provided. Valdo might have just been being an ass about the idea of Jaskier doing nothing but spend his money all day, but if the shoe fits--

He's pulled from his thoughts by the kitchen door opening and Geralt emerging with two plates piled high with some excellent-looking orange chicken and fried rice. "Food's up," he grunts, heading towards the dining room table.

Jaskier follows eagerly, stomach rumbling harder as the aroma of the food penetrates his very soul. "Whatever kitchen god or devil you've sold your soul to, it was worth it. The bread was amazing and this somehow looks even better. How did you just have all of this stuff on hand?"

"I get bored, like to experiment. Got a little bit of everything in the kitchen, just in case. And it wasn't a god or a devil, just a community college for two semesters of cooking classes." Geralt sets one of the plates down on the table and then pulls out the chair in front of it, then continues on his way right back out of the room, the second plate in hand. "Just leave the dishes on the table when you're done, I'll get them later."

"Wait!" calls Jaskier, frowning. "Are you not eating, too?"

Geralt pauses and looks over his shoulder, that eyebrow raised again. "Yeah. Was gonna eat in the other room, give you some privacy."

"That's okay, really, you can sit with me." Jaskier tries not to sound too desperate for conversation, but honestly, he's not used to being silent for this long and he's starting to get bored with the voices in his head. "Eating alone is kind of awkward, isn't it?"

"I eat alone three meals a day, most times," answers Geralt, without even the slightest hint of inflection to it.

"Yes, well, not today," Jaskier counters with a smile.

It takes another moment for Geralt to relent, coming back to sit at the far end of the table with his own plate. He shoots Jaskier a few bemused glances, but mostly focuses on bending over his plate and apparently inhaling his food. Jaskier follows suit with only slightly more grace, doing his best to hold back any suggestive noises as the flavor of the chicken hits his tongue. He must not be entirely successful, because the next time he looks up, Geralt is looking at him with even more amusement. "It's not that good."

"It's pretty fuckin' good," disagrees Jaskier around a mouthful of food. "Why on earth are you running a bed and breakfast if you can cook like this? You should be running a restaurant instead."

"Town already has a restaurant." Geralt shrugs as if it's obvious. "Didn't have an inn. Made more sense to open an inn."

"Even an inn that no one ever comes to? Can't make you very much money." As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Jaskier hears what an asshole it makes him sound like and immediately slaps a hand over his mouth in horror. "I'm sorry, that was so fucking rude--"

"I work as a handyman to keep the lights on," Geralt answers the unspoken question. He doesn't call Jaskier out on his rudeness, which is a small mercy. "Not as lucrative as being a hotshot lawyer, but I make ends meet."

Alright, so maybe the unintentional barb hadn't completely passed Geralt by. "Right. Sorry, I didn't mean to..." Jaskier trails off, unable to think of an end to the sentence that won't make this whole thing worse. He changes the subject instead. "How did you know my fiancé is a lawyer, anyways? Did Eskel tell you?"

"Lambert. He called ahead while you two were walking over." Geralt gives him a fleeting look, but trains his eyes on his forkful of food for the next part. "Also said your fiancé sounded like a real jackass."

"Valdo's not a jackass!" Jaskier instantly defends, even though he knows as he says it that it's kind of a lie. "He's-- well, he's just got an odd sense of humor, that's all. Not everyone finds him funny."

"But you do?"

_ Not when he's making fun of me, _ the voice in Jaskier's head instantly supplies, but he ignores that bitch and tries to swerve again. "And what about you? You cook, you fix things, you own a business. Where's Mrs. Geralt?"

That was definitely the wrong thing to say. Geralt's jaw immediately clenches, a bite of food halfway to his mouth and frozen in midair as his eyes snap up to glare at Jaskier with anger and a little hurt, like he's been slapped. "There isn't one," he says flatly, letting the fork drop to the plate with a clatter. "I'm turning in for the night. If you need anything, just bang on the door to room one." He stands abruptly, the chair legs screeching as they're pushed back, and once again makes to flee the room.

"Wait, please, I'm sorry," Jaskier says quickly, standing as well. "God, I'm really sticking my foot in my mouth tonight, aren't I? I swear I'm not deliberately being this much of an idiot. I was raised with sense and everything, I've just... I've just had a weird day and I'd like to start over, if possible. Can we do that?"

For a long moment they stand there looking at each other, and Jaskier thinks that Geralt is going to tell him to go fuck himself-- or worse, put him on his ass out in the snow. It's clear that he's touched on a nerve there, and he hadn't exactly conducted himself with grace before that. He wouldn't blame Geralt if the man decided to rid himself of the issue altogether. 

But then Geralt takes a step towards him and holds out a hand for Jaskier to shake. "Hey. I'm Geralt. I run the inn."

Jaskier exhales, then takes the offered hand. "Hey, I'm Jaskier. I need a room for the night."

"Room two is all yours," Geralt says with a nod. "See you in the morning."

The third time that Geralt goes to leave the room, Jaskier lets him, wondering as he watches whether there's more to be seen from this mystery man or whether underneath the levels of gruff loner-dom if there's just more layers of scowls and clipped sentences. He shouldn't wonder, really, has no business wondering, but he can't help the little tingle of curiosity in the back of his mind as he finishes his food and then slips into the kitchen to place his plate in the sink. There's something that makes him want to dig a little deeper, just to see what he finds. 

The bed, Jaskier discovers not long later as he slips between the covers still dressed in the only set of clothes that he has, is indeed very comfortable. Comfortable enough that when he closes his eyes, it isn't long before the snowy silence of the world outside the window saps that final ounce of wakefulness from him and sends him off to sleep in this strange new world.

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the assholes who keep nagging me to work on this fic


End file.
